My wife, Kathie, frequently finds jobs in the newspaper or via the grapevine for me in the forlorn hope that I will begin to bring some income into the family.
She feels this way because I spend most of time whittling, blogging, or fighting crab grass, none of which produces a farthing.
My usual response to one of her suggested positions is to look up and say: “Great! That sounds right up my alley”……and get back to my pathetic activities.
This time she said that several women in her book club were poll workers and that the work was easy, infrequent, and the pay good.
This not only matched my three top employment priorities, but perked my interest as well. I have always been interested in the political process and served as an elected town councilman many years ago. I am also conscientious about voting and always do so, usually with unhappy results.
I went to the county web site and filed my application. “Message Sent” had no sooner appeared on the screen when I received a reply saying I was accepted and should appear for training two days hence. This should have raised my suspicions because my email applications usually wind up in the great round file in the sky never to be heard from again.
I appeared at the county office complex on the appointed day. As I entered, I walked into a swarm of the oldest human beings I have ever seen. I was sure that Meals on Wheels was just getting out or it was enrollment day for the county nursing home.
I asked a gentleman standing next to me if he could direct me to the poll worker training registration. He indicated that it was somewhere in the midst of the swarming wheel chairs and colliding walkers. I asked where the line started and he responded: “There is no damn line. Just look at them.” The old folks were surging around a table scanning sheets of registration documents. “How do you expect me to read this?”, one old gal piped up to no in particular.
“I usually wait for them to move on,” my companion said. I am not sure if he meant into the auditorium or the next plane of existence, either of which could happen at any moment.
I’m old but these folks were OLD, Mr. Riley, Sr. old. A number of years ago, friends of ours had a father and son living next door. Mr. Riley, Jr. was in his sixties and Mr. Riley, Sr. was considerably north of that. The friends’ daughter, who was 5 or 6 at the time, made a reference to one of them and her mother asked which one she meant. “Not old Mr. Riley, Mom, I was talking about almost dead Mr. Riley,” she replied.
I entered the hall and took a seat at the end of a row near a side exit. This is my usual spot at any assembly. I choose it so I can bail in a hurry in case a crazed person comes crashing through the center door with guns blazing. Hey, I didn’t live this long by being stupid.
I was nicely settled when a voice boomed behind me: “I want that seat!” Suddenly, I was transported back to high school and turned expecting to see Anthony Nadjatowski looming over me with fists clenched. Instead, it was a large scowling woman leaning on a walker with a large foam pillow under her arm. Like high school, I vacated in a hurry before I got my ear flicked.
Soon a young-by-comparison older woman came to the lectern and bellowed into the mike: “Can everybody here me?” A chorus of “no’s” echoed across the room. She repeated this several times turning the volume up each time until it was at ear splitting level. Still, the consensus was no. Finally, she gave up and went on anyway.
Here is something I didn’t know: if a blind person wants to vote and asks for assistance, he/she must be accompanied into the booth by both a Democrat and a Republican. He/she can also bring a guide dog. A Democrat, a Republican, a blind person and a dog enter a voting booth…..write your own joke.
At that moment, another large woman with a walker began to stagger down the aisle in search of a seat. We all eyed her carefully fearful that she would either demand our seat or fall on us. She shoved a chair to the end of a table. She also carried a foam cushion, but her’s was the size of a two person life raft. After she got all comfy, she began ripping the pages from her employee’s manual.
Another Board of Elections staffer took the floor and explained how to open and start the voting machine. This seemed beyond the physical abilities of most of my co-workers, but they didn’t seem too concerned as many had dozed off.
The staffer pointed at me and asked if I would come up and play the part of a voter in a simulation. I suppose she thought I was one of the few who could make it to the front of the room in the allotted one hour of training time. As I signed in as myself, the staffer chirped: “Oh, Mr. Andersen is a Democrat!” This the old dears heard and a collective growl rose up. Democrats are few and far between in our county and are hunted with dogs when flushed out.
The trainer said that we would work in teams and stressed the need for mutual assistance and preparation. She asked for questions, but there were none, although I was tempted to ask if each team would be supplied with a defibrillator and body bags.
As I left I thought that if these good folks, despite their physical limitations, are motivated to perform a community service at considerable inconvenience and discomfort to themselves, what is wrong with the rest of us slackers? That’s why they are the Greatest Generation.
Friday, May 13, 2011
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Scrambled Thoughts on a Ramblin Ride
I’m heading for Reading.
The Outsider Folk Art Gallery there is including my carvings in an upcoming exhibit and I am driving out to deliver my work.
I love road trips and today is a perfect day for one: the sun is shining and the temp is in the sixties. I’ve loaded my old Volvo wagon which I had to do by climbing over the front seat because the tail gate is broken.
I’m taking Route 78 west to Allentown and 222 east to Reading. It’s a 90 mile trip each way. I’m rolling. Got the Eagles cranked up and away we go:
“I’m runnin down the road tryen to loosen my load, got seven women on my mind.”
Seven? I don’t think I know seven women, and if I did I forgot six of them. And if I did know them, I sure as hell wouldn’t have them all on my mind at the same time. I’d mix up a name and be down to six in no time.
Oh, hell. There’s a cop. I poop my pants every time I see the fuzz because my speedometer is broken. Normally, I track my speed with the GPS but I left it on the dining room table on my way out the door.
Whew, guess I’m okay. Glad to be off 78 and driving through rural Pennsylvania. Things are a lot greener here than they are back at home. I guess I’m in farm country because I just passed the Barn Dance Boutique. And there’s a store called Cash for Guns. Wait a minute. Let me think about that. I walk into your store with a gun and you give me cash? Isn’t that a stick-up? Heh, heh.
What’s this? Kutztown University. Looks like a big layout. I guess I heard of it, but it didn’t appear on my kid’s radar when they were college shopping. Their name must really hold them back. You know the kids who go there have to call it Klutztown University.
Ha, ha. There’s a sign for a town called Virginville. I’ll bet nobody lives there anymore. Heh, heh. Well, you know what they say out here in Pennsylvania Dutch country: if you’ve come to Virginville, you’re practically in Blue Balls.
These are real town names. I read that back in the 1920’s or 30’s the National Geographic Service cleaned up most of the racy place names in the US. There were a lot of them because most places were named by lonely, horny trappers. They got rid of Tickle Pussy Creek and most of the Big Tit Mountains. They missed the Grand Tetons because it was French.
Ah, here comes Hendrix singing “All Along the Watch Tower.” I usually bellow along to this one, but can’t because my windows are open on account of the air conditioner being busted. My mechanic says this car is tired. Funny, my doctor says the same thing about me. I guess that’s why the Swedish Nightmare and I have bonded.
Damn, it’s starting to pour rain and I left my umbrella on the table next to my GPS. Seven women my ass, I can’t even remember my stuff.
Oh, no. The road split and, according to the sign, I am heading toward Lancaster, the heart of Amish country, and not Reading. Damn, I’ll bet I get stuck behind a horse and wagon. Sure enough. MOVE IT, YOU SCRAPPEL EATING SCHMUCK!!
Whew, I passed him. HERE’S YOUR BIRD OF PARADISE, YOU QUAINT BASTARD!!
I am heading for Ohio and starting to get really rattled. I need my Third Man.
I watched a show last night on NatGeo about how many people who survive harrowing escapes attest to being aided my a mysterious stranger who suddenly appears and leads them to safety. It’s called the Third Man Phenomenon. The religious say it is proof of guardian angels, but scientists think it is some kind of neurological defense mechanism.
What they didn’t get into though is whether you should listen to this guy. They only interviewed those who survived. Perhaps the ninety percent who didn’t got lead over a cliff by this dude. Good point, huh?
And nobody was surprised by the fact that no one claimed to be saved by a Third Woman. Maybe none of them made it out because she kept stopping to ask directions.
Look. There’s sign for downtown Reading, the rain has stopped and the sun is out. Maybe my Third Man did weigh in. I’d buy him lunch, but I only have eight bucks.
The Outsider Folk Art Gallery there is including my carvings in an upcoming exhibit and I am driving out to deliver my work.
I love road trips and today is a perfect day for one: the sun is shining and the temp is in the sixties. I’ve loaded my old Volvo wagon which I had to do by climbing over the front seat because the tail gate is broken.
I’m taking Route 78 west to Allentown and 222 east to Reading. It’s a 90 mile trip each way. I’m rolling. Got the Eagles cranked up and away we go:
“I’m runnin down the road tryen to loosen my load, got seven women on my mind.”
Seven? I don’t think I know seven women, and if I did I forgot six of them. And if I did know them, I sure as hell wouldn’t have them all on my mind at the same time. I’d mix up a name and be down to six in no time.
Oh, hell. There’s a cop. I poop my pants every time I see the fuzz because my speedometer is broken. Normally, I track my speed with the GPS but I left it on the dining room table on my way out the door.
Whew, guess I’m okay. Glad to be off 78 and driving through rural Pennsylvania. Things are a lot greener here than they are back at home. I guess I’m in farm country because I just passed the Barn Dance Boutique. And there’s a store called Cash for Guns. Wait a minute. Let me think about that. I walk into your store with a gun and you give me cash? Isn’t that a stick-up? Heh, heh.
What’s this? Kutztown University. Looks like a big layout. I guess I heard of it, but it didn’t appear on my kid’s radar when they were college shopping. Their name must really hold them back. You know the kids who go there have to call it Klutztown University.
Ha, ha. There’s a sign for a town called Virginville. I’ll bet nobody lives there anymore. Heh, heh. Well, you know what they say out here in Pennsylvania Dutch country: if you’ve come to Virginville, you’re practically in Blue Balls.
These are real town names. I read that back in the 1920’s or 30’s the National Geographic Service cleaned up most of the racy place names in the US. There were a lot of them because most places were named by lonely, horny trappers. They got rid of Tickle Pussy Creek and most of the Big Tit Mountains. They missed the Grand Tetons because it was French.
Ah, here comes Hendrix singing “All Along the Watch Tower.” I usually bellow along to this one, but can’t because my windows are open on account of the air conditioner being busted. My mechanic says this car is tired. Funny, my doctor says the same thing about me. I guess that’s why the Swedish Nightmare and I have bonded.
Damn, it’s starting to pour rain and I left my umbrella on the table next to my GPS. Seven women my ass, I can’t even remember my stuff.
Oh, no. The road split and, according to the sign, I am heading toward Lancaster, the heart of Amish country, and not Reading. Damn, I’ll bet I get stuck behind a horse and wagon. Sure enough. MOVE IT, YOU SCRAPPEL EATING SCHMUCK!!
Whew, I passed him. HERE’S YOUR BIRD OF PARADISE, YOU QUAINT BASTARD!!
I am heading for Ohio and starting to get really rattled. I need my Third Man.
I watched a show last night on NatGeo about how many people who survive harrowing escapes attest to being aided my a mysterious stranger who suddenly appears and leads them to safety. It’s called the Third Man Phenomenon. The religious say it is proof of guardian angels, but scientists think it is some kind of neurological defense mechanism.
What they didn’t get into though is whether you should listen to this guy. They only interviewed those who survived. Perhaps the ninety percent who didn’t got lead over a cliff by this dude. Good point, huh?
And nobody was surprised by the fact that no one claimed to be saved by a Third Woman. Maybe none of them made it out because she kept stopping to ask directions.
Look. There’s sign for downtown Reading, the rain has stopped and the sun is out. Maybe my Third Man did weigh in. I’d buy him lunch, but I only have eight bucks.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Farewell, My Ass
My ass went away and I haven’t a clue.
Turned around one day and-oops!-no wazoo.
My butt and I were firmly attached.
He followed me around and loved to be scratched.
At times when my mood took a downward route,
He brightened my day with a playful toot.
For heavens sake, I miss the old bum.
Where do you suppose I’ll put my thumb?
My ass got canned, and I’m feeling crummy.
How come that memo didn’t get to my tummy?
If told to put it up my ass,
I will sadly say I have to pass.
In his day he held my wallet on high
Now it droops down below my thigh.
Today, as I wander the shops and malls,
It swings right and left like an old elephant’s balls.
Not much to look at, so I’ve been told.
To me he was worth his weight in gold
Phooey on those who say he was lead
And the principle place to look for my head!
I went to the doctor and this he did say,
When men get old their butts go away.
He puffed himself up and said with a sigh,
“You’ll have to kiss your ass good-bye.”
As I left the office I was quite perplexed.
I said to my dear Willie, I hope you’re not next.
Turned around one day and-oops!-no wazoo.
My butt and I were firmly attached.
He followed me around and loved to be scratched.
At times when my mood took a downward route,
He brightened my day with a playful toot.
For heavens sake, I miss the old bum.
Where do you suppose I’ll put my thumb?
My ass got canned, and I’m feeling crummy.
How come that memo didn’t get to my tummy?
If told to put it up my ass,
I will sadly say I have to pass.
In his day he held my wallet on high
Now it droops down below my thigh.
Today, as I wander the shops and malls,
It swings right and left like an old elephant’s balls.
Not much to look at, so I’ve been told.
To me he was worth his weight in gold
Phooey on those who say he was lead
And the principle place to look for my head!
I went to the doctor and this he did say,
When men get old their butts go away.
He puffed himself up and said with a sigh,
“You’ll have to kiss your ass good-bye.”
As I left the office I was quite perplexed.
I said to my dear Willie, I hope you’re not next.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
A Trip to New York City....Almost
Though we only live 50 miles from New York City, sometimes it is a daunting struggle just to get there.
I know this after 35 years of commuting there every day. I know it sometimes takes a steely determination to keep on going in the direction of the office or home. I’ve been roasted, toasted, blacked out, smoked out, flooded out, crowded out and wrecked; and still I got to work everyday.
I have literally stepped over bodies to keep moving toward my job.
I had plans and counter-plans to deal with every possible contingency. I had car routes, alternate train routes, bus and ferry schedules. I knew every back street that led to every tunnel and bridge. I have ridden between cars exposed to the elements in a blizzard. I have perservered through derailments and accidents and kept moving. I have slogged through snow covered farm fields. I have hitch-hiked.
I was, I am proud to say, a fierce and savvy commuter. Once I turned to a badly shaken companion as train personnel led us past the mangled remains of a woman who ended her life by jumping in front of our train, and said: “We can’t help her. We have to keep moving and connect with that train over there before the coroner arrives and shuts everything down.” Yes, I had been ambushed by the coroner on other occasions. We made the train and I was proud that I had navigated a suicide with only a ten minute delay. Usually, a suicide is two hours at least.
Yesterday, I blinked.
It was a roasting hot day with the temperature hovering near ninety. I was planning to take 2:50 bus out of Clinton, NJ, to attend a six o’clock cocktail party in the city hosted by a group of friends and former associates in the association management field. I have not seen some of these people since I stopped working three years ago. I was really looking forward to it.
As I was sitting in the air-conditioned ticket office along with five other people, an attendant announced that the enroute bus only had four available seats remaining and we might want to get on line outside. Instantly, my old juices kicked in and I bolted for the door nearly bowling over a grey haired woman with a peace decal on her pocket book. I was the first one out. So far, so good.
Once outside, I discovered there were already four people ahead of me. Great, I thought, all I have to do is elbow past one person, unless they decide to move that old guy with the walker back there ahead of me.
The bus pulled in and savage jockeying began. I held my own in fifth place but was not able to improve my position. This was the first sign that I might have lost my edge.
I decided to play it out anyway. When the driver collected my ticket he said there was one seat left all the way in the back. Ha! I’m in! As I made my way rearward, I saw that what looked like a family of migrants had set up house-keeping all along the back seat. There was a man, a woman, a dozen or so snotty-nose brats, and one empty seat all the way in the corner.
Imagine my chagrin when I discovered that the so-called empty seat was occupied by yet another snotty-nosed brat in a carrier.
Screwed. Now my choice was either to ride for an hour and a half on the NJ Turnpike standing with my crotch in the faces of the migrants and my ass against the bathroom door, or leave the bus.
I left. I got my ticket refunded and hopped into my car to execute Plan B: drive to Hoboken and take the Path to the city. I still had plenty of time.
The car was roasting after having sat in the sun for 45 minutes. Then I remembered the air conditioning didn’t work in the old Volvo. I decided to push on anyway. As I rolled down the highway with the windows wide open and the roar of trucks and traffic drowning out the radio, I felt a pool of perspiration building up along the top of my abdomen and sensed the onset of the dreaded Belly Sweat. If I showed up like this I would either look like I was a few drinks ahead of everyone, or I’ve slobbered on myself.
Suddenly, I had an inspiration and would adopt Plan C: hop off Route 78 at the next exit, head for Kathie’s office, stick her with the non-air conditioned car, and take her comfy Subaru into the city. She was a trooper about it, and I was back in business rolling down the highway.
Soon it became apparent that this air conditioning wasn’t working either and the Subaru was even hotter than the Volvo. Now the belly sweat was hooking up with the armpit sweat and all was headed south to create the even more dreaded Soggy Bottom. This was not going to work. By the time I got to the city I would look and smell like I had swum the Hudson.
I glanced at my watch and saw that I had plenty of time to get back to Clinton and execute Plan D: catch the next bus at 4:30. For some reason, this bus takes two hours to get into New York, but this would still get me to my party for the last hour.
I arrived at Clinton with a half hour to spare and headed for the air conditioned waiting room. It was locked. My choices now were to sit in the overheated car or stand in the sun for a half hour.
Suddenly, sitting on the front porch in my shorts with a beer sounded like the best option. Good old Plan E!
I know this after 35 years of commuting there every day. I know it sometimes takes a steely determination to keep on going in the direction of the office or home. I’ve been roasted, toasted, blacked out, smoked out, flooded out, crowded out and wrecked; and still I got to work everyday.
I have literally stepped over bodies to keep moving toward my job.
I had plans and counter-plans to deal with every possible contingency. I had car routes, alternate train routes, bus and ferry schedules. I knew every back street that led to every tunnel and bridge. I have ridden between cars exposed to the elements in a blizzard. I have perservered through derailments and accidents and kept moving. I have slogged through snow covered farm fields. I have hitch-hiked.
I was, I am proud to say, a fierce and savvy commuter. Once I turned to a badly shaken companion as train personnel led us past the mangled remains of a woman who ended her life by jumping in front of our train, and said: “We can’t help her. We have to keep moving and connect with that train over there before the coroner arrives and shuts everything down.” Yes, I had been ambushed by the coroner on other occasions. We made the train and I was proud that I had navigated a suicide with only a ten minute delay. Usually, a suicide is two hours at least.
Yesterday, I blinked.
It was a roasting hot day with the temperature hovering near ninety. I was planning to take 2:50 bus out of Clinton, NJ, to attend a six o’clock cocktail party in the city hosted by a group of friends and former associates in the association management field. I have not seen some of these people since I stopped working three years ago. I was really looking forward to it.
As I was sitting in the air-conditioned ticket office along with five other people, an attendant announced that the enroute bus only had four available seats remaining and we might want to get on line outside. Instantly, my old juices kicked in and I bolted for the door nearly bowling over a grey haired woman with a peace decal on her pocket book. I was the first one out. So far, so good.
Once outside, I discovered there were already four people ahead of me. Great, I thought, all I have to do is elbow past one person, unless they decide to move that old guy with the walker back there ahead of me.
The bus pulled in and savage jockeying began. I held my own in fifth place but was not able to improve my position. This was the first sign that I might have lost my edge.
I decided to play it out anyway. When the driver collected my ticket he said there was one seat left all the way in the back. Ha! I’m in! As I made my way rearward, I saw that what looked like a family of migrants had set up house-keeping all along the back seat. There was a man, a woman, a dozen or so snotty-nose brats, and one empty seat all the way in the corner.
Imagine my chagrin when I discovered that the so-called empty seat was occupied by yet another snotty-nosed brat in a carrier.
Screwed. Now my choice was either to ride for an hour and a half on the NJ Turnpike standing with my crotch in the faces of the migrants and my ass against the bathroom door, or leave the bus.
I left. I got my ticket refunded and hopped into my car to execute Plan B: drive to Hoboken and take the Path to the city. I still had plenty of time.
The car was roasting after having sat in the sun for 45 minutes. Then I remembered the air conditioning didn’t work in the old Volvo. I decided to push on anyway. As I rolled down the highway with the windows wide open and the roar of trucks and traffic drowning out the radio, I felt a pool of perspiration building up along the top of my abdomen and sensed the onset of the dreaded Belly Sweat. If I showed up like this I would either look like I was a few drinks ahead of everyone, or I’ve slobbered on myself.
Suddenly, I had an inspiration and would adopt Plan C: hop off Route 78 at the next exit, head for Kathie’s office, stick her with the non-air conditioned car, and take her comfy Subaru into the city. She was a trooper about it, and I was back in business rolling down the highway.
Soon it became apparent that this air conditioning wasn’t working either and the Subaru was even hotter than the Volvo. Now the belly sweat was hooking up with the armpit sweat and all was headed south to create the even more dreaded Soggy Bottom. This was not going to work. By the time I got to the city I would look and smell like I had swum the Hudson.
I glanced at my watch and saw that I had plenty of time to get back to Clinton and execute Plan D: catch the next bus at 4:30. For some reason, this bus takes two hours to get into New York, but this would still get me to my party for the last hour.
I arrived at Clinton with a half hour to spare and headed for the air conditioned waiting room. It was locked. My choices now were to sit in the overheated car or stand in the sun for a half hour.
Suddenly, sitting on the front porch in my shorts with a beer sounded like the best option. Good old Plan E!
Monday, March 21, 2011
Into the Closet
Welcome to my closets.
That’s right I have two. Neither of them is of the walk-in variety which is just as well since you would probably break your neck on the shoes heaped up on the floor.
Here in Closet One are my dress clothes. I rarely go here anymore since I stopped working. Yes, I have a lot of neckties. I love the little dears but rarely have occasion to wear one. Take a look at this one. Looks like just an abstract design right? Wrong! If you look real close you will see that the pattern actually spells out “fuck you.” I would wear this from time to time when meeting with disagreeable sorts such as the IRS auditors. I think I’ll hang onto it in case I’m ever invited on the Glen Beck Show.
Since ties have gotten skinny again and mine are of the plumpish sort, I think I may download a bunch of them on Ebay. It would all be gravy because I got most of them for free. Back when I was executive director of the Men’s Furnishings Association my members kept me well stocked in shirts and ties. Getting a tie was easy, getting a raise was tough.
It may surprise you to know that I was once considered something of an authority on men’s fashion. I even have a web site, www.shirtsandties.org, offering wardrobe advice to the rare man seeking it. I am thinking of starting a blog on men’s wear that ties into the web site. Unfortunately, the only fashion advice I can think of at the moment is “don’t wipe your hands on your pants.” I just ruined a new pair of jeans by doing exactly that after changing the oil in the lawn mower.
Oh look, here’s my tweed sport jacket that I wear all the time. Well, maybe not so much all the time since it seems to still have hair on it from the cat that died five years ago.
I am getting nostalgic, so let’s move on to Closet Two. This is the sanctuary of my more sporty items. You will notice that it is organized in two tiers. On the top are my bottoms, on the bottom are my tops. Here on the right are all my short-sleeve shirts waiting to go into storage in the basement until the spring. Oh, it is spring. So I guess I can let that one slide.
Why so many pairs of pants? Well, we have fat pants, medium pants, and thin pants so that I always have something to wear regardless of my ever shifting profile. If, after my demise, some archaeologist counts the pants by type and studies the wear patterns, he will learn that I spent most of my adult life in fat pants. I am happy to report, however, that after an intense diet and fitness program inspired by my daughter’s approaching wedding, I can squeeze back into my medium pants. I think it will take a really frightening report from my doctors to get me to go for the thins.
Up there on the top shelf are two of my favorite sweaters: the Irish sweater my mother bought for me in 1964 and the Norwegian ski sweater I purchased in 1971. I still wear both regularly. When I tell some middle aged person I have clothing older than they are, I speak the truth.
Oh, you have to run along? But we haven’t gotten to my dressers yet. Well, maybe next time.
That’s right I have two. Neither of them is of the walk-in variety which is just as well since you would probably break your neck on the shoes heaped up on the floor.
Here in Closet One are my dress clothes. I rarely go here anymore since I stopped working. Yes, I have a lot of neckties. I love the little dears but rarely have occasion to wear one. Take a look at this one. Looks like just an abstract design right? Wrong! If you look real close you will see that the pattern actually spells out “fuck you.” I would wear this from time to time when meeting with disagreeable sorts such as the IRS auditors. I think I’ll hang onto it in case I’m ever invited on the Glen Beck Show.
Since ties have gotten skinny again and mine are of the plumpish sort, I think I may download a bunch of them on Ebay. It would all be gravy because I got most of them for free. Back when I was executive director of the Men’s Furnishings Association my members kept me well stocked in shirts and ties. Getting a tie was easy, getting a raise was tough.
It may surprise you to know that I was once considered something of an authority on men’s fashion. I even have a web site, www.shirtsandties.org, offering wardrobe advice to the rare man seeking it. I am thinking of starting a blog on men’s wear that ties into the web site. Unfortunately, the only fashion advice I can think of at the moment is “don’t wipe your hands on your pants.” I just ruined a new pair of jeans by doing exactly that after changing the oil in the lawn mower.
Oh look, here’s my tweed sport jacket that I wear all the time. Well, maybe not so much all the time since it seems to still have hair on it from the cat that died five years ago.
I am getting nostalgic, so let’s move on to Closet Two. This is the sanctuary of my more sporty items. You will notice that it is organized in two tiers. On the top are my bottoms, on the bottom are my tops. Here on the right are all my short-sleeve shirts waiting to go into storage in the basement until the spring. Oh, it is spring. So I guess I can let that one slide.
Why so many pairs of pants? Well, we have fat pants, medium pants, and thin pants so that I always have something to wear regardless of my ever shifting profile. If, after my demise, some archaeologist counts the pants by type and studies the wear patterns, he will learn that I spent most of my adult life in fat pants. I am happy to report, however, that after an intense diet and fitness program inspired by my daughter’s approaching wedding, I can squeeze back into my medium pants. I think it will take a really frightening report from my doctors to get me to go for the thins.
Up there on the top shelf are two of my favorite sweaters: the Irish sweater my mother bought for me in 1964 and the Norwegian ski sweater I purchased in 1971. I still wear both regularly. When I tell some middle aged person I have clothing older than they are, I speak the truth.
Oh, you have to run along? But we haven’t gotten to my dressers yet. Well, maybe next time.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Sinatra Quiz
I am in the midst of reading “Frank: The Voice” by James Kaplan.
I have long been a fan of Sinatra’s music, but never cared much for him as a man.
Nothing in this book that traces his life from his childhood in Hoboken to his career resurgence in 1953 changes that. We learn that he was a momma’s boy, a bully, a wimp, a prodigious philanderer, ruthlessly ambitious, ego maniacal, mobbed up, obsessive compulsive and a prima donna.
Hey, nobody’s perfect. Still, to paraphrase the author, he gave us the best part of himself in his music.
Now for you Frankophiles and Frankophobes, it’s time for a little quiz to test your knowledge of things Sinatra.
As usual, there will be no cash prizes. So, put your dreams away for another day and pick up your pencils.
1. How did Frank Sinatra get the scars on the left side of his face and left ear?
a. In a knife fight on the streets of Hoboken.
b. A little over-enthusiastic discipline from his over-bearing mother, Dolly.
c. Forceps marks from his birth.
d. Ava Gardner
2. Frank Sinatra was…
a. macrophallic
b. monochromatic
c. hydrocephalic
d. hydrophobic
3. Why was Nancy Sinatra called “Big Nancy”?
a. She was a foot taller than her husband.
b. To distinguish her from her daughter who was called “Little Nancy”
c. Because she took up two seats on the band bus.
d. She was macrovaginal.
4. How often did Frank change his underwear?
a. Never
b. Once a week
c. Every day.
d. Four times a day.
5. In a famous photo from 1951, Frank is shown getting off a plane to attend a mob meeting in Cuba. He is carrying a suitcase that is so heavy he has to support it on his hip. What did the suit case contain?
a. Narcotics
b. A cash delivery to Lucky Luciano
c. It has never been determined.
d. A three day supply of underwear.
6. How did Frank come by his legendary breath control?
a. He was born that way.
b. From studying Tommy Dorsey’s trombone technique.
c. By holding his breath until he got what he wanted from his mommy.
d. By studying Ava Gardner’s trombone technique.
7. In the Dorsey days, he had a clash of egos with Buddy Rich. How did Frank resolve it?
a. He hired goons to beat him up.
b. He hid Buddy’s drum sticks.
c. He told on Buddy to Tommy Dorsey.
d. He suggested sensitivity training.
8. Why did he flunk his army physical during WWII?
a. A punctured ear drum and emotional instability.
b. The army couldn’t afford his underwear tab.
c. He was too short.
d. His macrophallus kept getting caught in his boots.
9. Who was his major competition for the role of Maggio in “From Here To Eternity”?
a. Wally Cox
b. Eli Wallach
c. Dana Andrews
d. Charlton Heston
10. When he accepted the Academy Award for Best Supporting Actor for his performance in “From Here to Eternity”, whom did he thank?
a. Samuel Cahn
b. Dolly
c. Ava Gardner
d. No one
Answers: 1-c; 2-a; 3-b; 4-d; 5-c; 6-b; 7-a; 8-a; 9-b; 10-d
I have long been a fan of Sinatra’s music, but never cared much for him as a man.
Nothing in this book that traces his life from his childhood in Hoboken to his career resurgence in 1953 changes that. We learn that he was a momma’s boy, a bully, a wimp, a prodigious philanderer, ruthlessly ambitious, ego maniacal, mobbed up, obsessive compulsive and a prima donna.
Hey, nobody’s perfect. Still, to paraphrase the author, he gave us the best part of himself in his music.
Now for you Frankophiles and Frankophobes, it’s time for a little quiz to test your knowledge of things Sinatra.
As usual, there will be no cash prizes. So, put your dreams away for another day and pick up your pencils.
1. How did Frank Sinatra get the scars on the left side of his face and left ear?
a. In a knife fight on the streets of Hoboken.
b. A little over-enthusiastic discipline from his over-bearing mother, Dolly.
c. Forceps marks from his birth.
d. Ava Gardner
2. Frank Sinatra was…
a. macrophallic
b. monochromatic
c. hydrocephalic
d. hydrophobic
3. Why was Nancy Sinatra called “Big Nancy”?
a. She was a foot taller than her husband.
b. To distinguish her from her daughter who was called “Little Nancy”
c. Because she took up two seats on the band bus.
d. She was macrovaginal.
4. How often did Frank change his underwear?
a. Never
b. Once a week
c. Every day.
d. Four times a day.
5. In a famous photo from 1951, Frank is shown getting off a plane to attend a mob meeting in Cuba. He is carrying a suitcase that is so heavy he has to support it on his hip. What did the suit case contain?
a. Narcotics
b. A cash delivery to Lucky Luciano
c. It has never been determined.
d. A three day supply of underwear.
6. How did Frank come by his legendary breath control?
a. He was born that way.
b. From studying Tommy Dorsey’s trombone technique.
c. By holding his breath until he got what he wanted from his mommy.
d. By studying Ava Gardner’s trombone technique.
7. In the Dorsey days, he had a clash of egos with Buddy Rich. How did Frank resolve it?
a. He hired goons to beat him up.
b. He hid Buddy’s drum sticks.
c. He told on Buddy to Tommy Dorsey.
d. He suggested sensitivity training.
8. Why did he flunk his army physical during WWII?
a. A punctured ear drum and emotional instability.
b. The army couldn’t afford his underwear tab.
c. He was too short.
d. His macrophallus kept getting caught in his boots.
9. Who was his major competition for the role of Maggio in “From Here To Eternity”?
a. Wally Cox
b. Eli Wallach
c. Dana Andrews
d. Charlton Heston
10. When he accepted the Academy Award for Best Supporting Actor for his performance in “From Here to Eternity”, whom did he thank?
a. Samuel Cahn
b. Dolly
c. Ava Gardner
d. No one
Answers: 1-c; 2-a; 3-b; 4-d; 5-c; 6-b; 7-a; 8-a; 9-b; 10-d
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Lost
I got lost the other day going to someplace I knew how to get to.
Getting lost is literally my worst nightmare. I have this recurrent dream that I am lost in the city (always the city) and have just trudged dozens of blocks only to realize I am going the wrong way and have to trudge all the way back to where I originally became lost. At this point panic and exhaustion are overwhelming me and I am already looking to the Conscious Observer to blow his whistle and weigh in with his usual ruling: “Enough with the trudging. You are not trudging another block. You are getting up to take a leak.”
I was on my way to drop-off my entry in an art show which was being held at Prallsville Mill in Stockton, NJ, about an hour drive from my house. I have been there on several occasions and passed it on many others.
I decided on a scenic route which would take me through miles of farms and small villages.
As I rolled along in my semi-trusty, twelve year old Volvo station wagon, I felt disoriented by the dramatic change in the landscape created by all the snow that has fallen this winter. Nothing looked the same. I began to feel disoriented and uncomfortable expecting Rod Serling at any moment to advise me I was about to enter the Twilight Zone.
Route 29, on which I was driving, runs right through Stockton, but I was uncertain which side of the town the mill was on. Traveling across the snow covered countryside, I was on autopilot having a lovely little daydream about how I would spend my Nigerian Sweepstakes winnings buying large houses in warm places.
Soon I came to Stockton.
Since Stockton is one of the smallest towns in New Jersey, I was through it in a nonce and out the other side without ever encountering the mill.
Now my disorientation became panic. Perhaps the mill isn’t in Stockton at all. Perhaps, it is some other part of the state altogether. Perhaps it doesn’t exist. Perhaps I dreamed it. Perhaps I’m dreaming now.
Now you may be wondering why someone in such a fragile navigational state would not have a GPS. Well, as I am sure you might guess, I seem to have lost it.
When I am befuddled, I usually compound my predicament by making a foolish decision. Stockton is on the Delaware River. On the other side of a short bridge lies the State of Pennsylvania. The address on the art submission clearly states Prallsville Mill, Stockton, NJ. The building is owned by the Hunterdon County (NJ) Cultural and Heritage Committee.
Inexplicably, I decided to seek it in Pennsylvania.
And so, I sped through the Pennsylvania countryside looking for a New Jersey destination. Just as I was about to yell to the Conscious Observer, “ISN’T IT TIME FOR ME TO TAKE A LEAK, FOR CHRIST SAKE,” I decided to call Kathie.
Here is how the conversation went:
Me: I’m lost.
Kathie: How could you be lost? Where are you?
Me: I am in Pennsylvania.
Kathie: Why are you in Pennsylvania? Prallsville Mill is in New Jersey.
Me: I thought a little bit of the other side of the Delaware may still have some New Jersey on it.
Kathie: It doesn’t.
Me: I thought I heard that some of it wound up there because the Penn family back in the 17th century got into a boundary dispute with the Jersey Proprietors and that’s how they settled it.
Kathie: You’ve GOT to stop drinking while you watch History Channel! I’ll put the address in Map Quest. It’s in Stockton.
Me: No, its not. I went through there.
Kathie: You must have driven right by it. You were probably daydreaming.
Me: Of all the damn nerve, I don’t daydream when I drive!
And so I re-crossed the bridge and went through Stockton again keeping an eagle eye out for the mill and, sure enough, there it was right where it was supposed to be. In my defense, let it be noted that it was very difficult to spot because the building was below road level and curbside snow piles hid it entirely.
I had submitted my work and, because I was so happy to have made it there, I volunteered to gallery sit and bring an appetizer to the artists’ reception.
Soon I was heading happily and confidently toward home and wishing I hadn't volunteered to make an appetizer.
Getting lost is literally my worst nightmare. I have this recurrent dream that I am lost in the city (always the city) and have just trudged dozens of blocks only to realize I am going the wrong way and have to trudge all the way back to where I originally became lost. At this point panic and exhaustion are overwhelming me and I am already looking to the Conscious Observer to blow his whistle and weigh in with his usual ruling: “Enough with the trudging. You are not trudging another block. You are getting up to take a leak.”
I was on my way to drop-off my entry in an art show which was being held at Prallsville Mill in Stockton, NJ, about an hour drive from my house. I have been there on several occasions and passed it on many others.
I decided on a scenic route which would take me through miles of farms and small villages.
As I rolled along in my semi-trusty, twelve year old Volvo station wagon, I felt disoriented by the dramatic change in the landscape created by all the snow that has fallen this winter. Nothing looked the same. I began to feel disoriented and uncomfortable expecting Rod Serling at any moment to advise me I was about to enter the Twilight Zone.
Route 29, on which I was driving, runs right through Stockton, but I was uncertain which side of the town the mill was on. Traveling across the snow covered countryside, I was on autopilot having a lovely little daydream about how I would spend my Nigerian Sweepstakes winnings buying large houses in warm places.
Soon I came to Stockton.
Since Stockton is one of the smallest towns in New Jersey, I was through it in a nonce and out the other side without ever encountering the mill.
Now my disorientation became panic. Perhaps the mill isn’t in Stockton at all. Perhaps, it is some other part of the state altogether. Perhaps it doesn’t exist. Perhaps I dreamed it. Perhaps I’m dreaming now.
Now you may be wondering why someone in such a fragile navigational state would not have a GPS. Well, as I am sure you might guess, I seem to have lost it.
When I am befuddled, I usually compound my predicament by making a foolish decision. Stockton is on the Delaware River. On the other side of a short bridge lies the State of Pennsylvania. The address on the art submission clearly states Prallsville Mill, Stockton, NJ. The building is owned by the Hunterdon County (NJ) Cultural and Heritage Committee.
Inexplicably, I decided to seek it in Pennsylvania.
And so, I sped through the Pennsylvania countryside looking for a New Jersey destination. Just as I was about to yell to the Conscious Observer, “ISN’T IT TIME FOR ME TO TAKE A LEAK, FOR CHRIST SAKE,” I decided to call Kathie.
Here is how the conversation went:
Me: I’m lost.
Kathie: How could you be lost? Where are you?
Me: I am in Pennsylvania.
Kathie: Why are you in Pennsylvania? Prallsville Mill is in New Jersey.
Me: I thought a little bit of the other side of the Delaware may still have some New Jersey on it.
Kathie: It doesn’t.
Me: I thought I heard that some of it wound up there because the Penn family back in the 17th century got into a boundary dispute with the Jersey Proprietors and that’s how they settled it.
Kathie: You’ve GOT to stop drinking while you watch History Channel! I’ll put the address in Map Quest. It’s in Stockton.
Me: No, its not. I went through there.
Kathie: You must have driven right by it. You were probably daydreaming.
Me: Of all the damn nerve, I don’t daydream when I drive!
And so I re-crossed the bridge and went through Stockton again keeping an eagle eye out for the mill and, sure enough, there it was right where it was supposed to be. In my defense, let it be noted that it was very difficult to spot because the building was below road level and curbside snow piles hid it entirely.
I had submitted my work and, because I was so happy to have made it there, I volunteered to gallery sit and bring an appetizer to the artists’ reception.
Soon I was heading happily and confidently toward home and wishing I hadn't volunteered to make an appetizer.
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